


Boxes

by Kitty Fisher (kittyfisher)



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Banter, Graphic Everything, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Rape, Sex, Violence, so many triggers, tinned spaghetti hoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29486868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyfisher/pseuds/Kitty%20Fisher
Summary: How many ways can you be locked up? Well...Based on the wonderful Life on Mars TV series and featuring all the hideousness of the 70s with added villains and torment.
Relationships: Sam Tyler/Gene Hunt
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Boxed

Boxes

Kitty Fisher

Not mine, no profit.

Archive: www.devinemadness.com/kittyfisher

:::

Wardrobe

The first thing he understood was the smell of mothballs; sharp and sickly as memory. His gran’s wardrobe the day he’d accidentally locked himself inside, had smelled like this. He’d been seven years old and it had taken years before he’d been anything other than afraid of small spaces.

Spaces like this one. Bent double, one knee rammed under his chin, his joints aching from constriction; he felt akin to a broken toy rammed haphazardly into a box. Stirring, shifting one inch at a time, he tried to straighten his legs, and came up against something soft. Frowning, he tried again, one arm feeling into nothingness, and succeeded in knocking his funny bone so hard his eyes watered.

He tried for even breathing. Managed it. Wiped his eyes and reached again. To realise that not all the limbs he could feel were his own.

Locked in a box with someone else. Stirring the jelly that purported to be his brain, he tried to remember. There had been a car accident. No, not in a car. With a car. Hit and run, his face slammed into tarmac, his body smashed. But this wasn’t a hospital. This was… what? He reached again, brushing past cloth to a hard surface. Wood. Unvarnished wood that was rough under his fingertips.

Not a hospital. Not of any kind – even in 1973 psychiatric wards hadn’t had wooden walls.

1973\. The thought brought him up short. Why should he think that…

With a twist that knotted his gut he remembered. And wondered if sanity was something he had any close relationship with after all.

Place your bets, mesdames et messieurs, today we play time roulette. Will you put your money on the past, or is the future a better bet? Is this real or imaginary? What’s up and what’s down… If a butterfly lies crushed on a forest floor, is Sam Tyler insane, or just temporarily out to lunch?

There was only one absolute -whatever name he decided to give this particular patch of time (past, present, future, hallucination, dream, nightmare), it was stuffed full of villains who didn’t give a monkeys about bashing coppers around. The last thing he could recall was watching Gene Hunt get a kicking to match his own. Then nothing, until now, where he was hunched up, squashed into somewhere dark and airless.

Gene Hunt, who used Avon’s best. Sam breathed in again. The air with thick with the chemical stink of camphor and bad aftershave, all of it overlaying the cloying scent of mildew. The mildew and mothballs were one thing, but the aftershave? It had to be Hunt. Oh, fuck. Sam wiped his fingers over his sweating face, then, leaning forward, fingered the nearest limb that wasn’t his own. Solid muscle. Warmth. Further up he found a pocket, weighted down with a hip flask and a chest that rose and fell.

At least the DCI was still alive.

Somehow the thought allowed his own bruises to throb more viciously. Ignoring them, he shifted, got one foot wedged flat and, with a push, reached upwards - and hit his fingers against metal. A rail. A hanging rail. Yep, it was a wardrobe. Great. Why would anyone knock him out and bung him in a wardrobe for chrissake? And with the less than petite Gene Hunt for company. What was his subconscious up to? Christ, the whole back in the Dark Ages thing was bad enough, but this as well? Maybe he was more into self-punishment than he’d ever believed. Maybe Gene Hunt was his conscience. Which was so ridiculous that he laughed out loud, shocking himself with the sudden rasping sound.

He listened, breathless, sweat clammy on his skin. Nothing happened. No one stirred. Less excitingly he didn’t wake up – neither from a coma in 2006 or from a nightmare in 1973. Bugger it, stuck in a cupboard with his boss – thank you, God. As much as anything it was all too humiliating, he was meant to be better than the pondlife from the past – better trained, more articulate, less Neanderthal... But clearly just as gullible. That Hunt was in this with him was only small recompense.

Fumbling in the dark, he found hinges, door panels and a lock. Pushing against it he heaved, hard. No joy. Though the body he’d ended up accidentally half kneeling on finally shifted.

One hand on the door, he blinked at where the darkness was slightly more dense. “Guv?”

A curse, one of the marginally less obscene from the Hunt repertoire, was followed by thump in the ribs and a mouthful of flailing arm.

“Hey, keep still!”

“What… the fuck…”

“If you could just keep still for a moment…”

“Christ on a crutch, my head hurts! Who slipped me a mickey?”

“Come on, it’s all right.” Trying in some way to reassure, Sam reached out, blindly searching.

“Go on like that chummy and I’ll remove your hand at the bleedin’ wrist.”

“Sorry. Ow! Mind out…” There was a moment of total confusion as, with all the grace of a small man-mountain, the DCI shifted himself. Sam bit down on a few curses of his own as, an elbow colliding with his chin, the darkness sparkled prettily with stars. “Jesus…”

“Sam? You all right?”

“Yeah, just about.”

There was a moment of rustling exploration that was only slightly painful. “Oy, we in a box?”

“No, in a wardrobe.”

“Bloody hell!”

“Yeah, and I’ve already looked for a lamppost.”

“Why? Not many fur coats round here – unless your bum’s got a comfier parking spot than mine.”

Well, well. Unfathomed depths. Or kids. “Didn’t take you for a reader, sir.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t take you for a dickhead, and yet we’re still in this delightful predicament.”

“It wasn’t my fault.” Sam bit the words off. He ought to have known that he’d get the blame. “I wasn’t to know he was a total nutter.”

“No? Well maybe you should’ve listened to me, I’m an expert on nutters.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“You can bloody talk.”

Sam ignored that one. “And besides, they’ve only just moved into the area. How could you know about them?”

“Instinct.”

“Of course, pardon me.”

“I’ll pardon you for anything apart from your foot – the one that’s half up me jacksie.”

“Oh.”

There was a pause for a rearrangement of limbs. A few muttered curses later they were still inextricably close and both of them were panting.

“Great.”

Sam agreed. Bloody great. His head still ached, and sweat was making his shirt cling to his skin. At least he wasn’t wearing his jacket, though he had no memory of removing it. All the aches didn’t help matters, and Gene had to be as badly off. “How’re your bruises?”

“Same as yours I should think.”

“Mmm.” A bony knee was pressing into a corker on his shin. Sam moved an inch and sighed in relief.

“So, mister-they-do-things-differently-in-Hyde, you tried to find the door yet?”

“It’s in front of us.”

“Which way are you facing?” A hand slapped into Sam’s face. “Oops, sorry. Got you.” The hand patted him, quite gently really. “It’s in front of you, yeah?”

“And it’s locked.” Just like when he was a kid. Though he’d been alone then and, remarkably, this was better.

“Maybe they’re saving us for later.”

Great. Sam could hear Hunt almost smacking his lips in relish. He knew a hook when one was dangled for him, but he had to bite: “Later?”

“Gladstone and his brother, I knew them back in ‘C’ Division. The pair of them’re like spiders - they like to hang on to their catch for a while before eating it. Soften it up. Tenderise the flesh unti –”

“Thanks, I get the picture.” He didn’t want to know. Really didn’t. He could feel the edges of his calm starting to erode. Wiping a hand over his face Sam drew his legs up, eliciting a curse from Hunt. “Hang on…”

“Oh, I’m hanging all right, just like a bloody suit. And I hate the smell of mothballs...”

Another shift, and Sam had both legs under him. One was fast asleep and he hissed as the blood started to flow back. Bracing his back, he tried to kick forward, slipped and tumbled sideways.

“Jesus, Sam, you want to watch where you put your hands, mate!”

“Sorry. Wait, I’ll have another try.”

“What, at getting to me todger?”

“No.” Sam took a patient breath. “At kicking the door open.”

“Oh, that. You should’ve said something.”

With a sudden, brief explosion of movement, a thump that half winded him and a crack loud enough to wake the dead, the door slammed open at the insistence of a cream leather casual.

Fresh air was a blessed relief. Gulping it down, Sam tumbled out onto greasy lino. The only light was that from a distant streetlamp, spilling in through a cracked and filthy window. The room was stacked with old furniture, and the two men looked around slowly as they stood up, stretching cramped limbs and listening warily. Neither of them still had their coats, and the DCI’s pale blue shirt was spattered with blood.

Hunt caught him looking and glanced down. “Blimey.” He pulled the shirt away from his chest and made a face. “Is it all mine?”

“Your eyebrow.”

“Oh, thought things were a bit dark.” He put up a hand and rubbed at the blood encrusting one side of his face. “Barry Gladstone always did like using his boots.”

“Yeah, and his brother’s a sweetheart.”

“He, you know, touch you up?”

“Did he what?” Sam wiped sweat from his face. “All I remember him touching me with was his size elevens.”

“Good.”

“What are you talking about?”

Hunt turned, his gaze casting up and down, assessing Sam’s body with a practised eye. “Jack Gladstone likes boys’ arses. Particularly nice ones like yours.”

“Oh.” Sam stared at his boss and for a nano-second debated asking if Hunt really thought his arse was nice. But then he’d never quite got a handle on the 70s male-bonding schtick. What was queer, and what was just lads together? Sometimes he thought he needed a handbook – non-PC speak for the time-traveller. That, along with fashion hints for the time Hugo Boss forgot.

“Come on, let’s find out where we are. I could murder a pint.”

Torn between exasperation and confusion, Sam watched as Hunt opened the door and just walked away. After a moment a head popped back around the doorjamb. “Oy, you staying for Jack – though I wouldn’t get your hopes up, apparently he’s hung like a stoat - or you coming?”

“He was only interested in bashing me about – and how do you know what size a stoat is?”

“Me dad kept ‘em. Tiny. As for Jacky, he’s a complete pervert, and you’re just his type – still alive.”

“Great.” Shaking himself, Sam followed. “Hell, I don’t even look gay.” Not in 2006, anyway. Damn it, but doubt was a terrible thing. “Do I?”

“You look as happy as Larry to me, son. As for being a bender, you just never can tell.” He was at the front door, holding it open to the night. Standing quite still, face like cold suet pudding, he was waiting as Sam caught up with him, until Sam was standing right by him. His eyes were bright with challenge. “Can you?” The look between them held. And then Hunt grinned, feral as a fox. “Mine’s a pint of Boddingtons'. I’ll stand you a Babycham, gorgeous.” And with a wink he pushed past and walked away, leaving Sam Tyler as confused as it was possible for a man to be.

:::

Van

Madonna (did she really have a new album out?) was singing about hanging up, which segued weirdly into button pushing with The Sugababes (fuel for fantasies there – Heidi or Mutya, or Heidi and Mutya… with Madonna in leather…) all of it overlain by the beep and click of hospital machinery. He could feel a hand holding his arm, the fingers squeezing…

“Come on, wake up… wake up!”

“Mam?”

“I should bloody well think not. Wakey wakey!”

“Fuck…”

“Couldn’t’ve put it better meself. Rise and shine, sonny.”

It wasn’t a wardrobe. It was the back of a transit. One that stank of old piss.

“Aw, Jesus...”

“Not exactly the Hilton, I’ll give you that. But this time we’ve all mod cons. Drink up.”

Sam muttered miserably under his breath and waved away the metal hipflask. After a long moment he gathered himself and slowly sat up, clutching his head in one hand. Shifting, sitting with his legs curled up he leant back on the cold metal wall and sighed. “At least this one’s not pitch black.” His hand dropped back into his lap.

“Nope.” Hunt took a sip, grimaced, and slowly screwed the cap back on the flask. “Door’s still locked, mind.”

“Great.” Someone had fitted a barrier behind the seats, the only way out was the double doors. “How about a good kick?”

“You already had that.”

“I noticed.”

“Jack likes you.”

“Great. What about you?”

“Oh, I’m too old and too ugly for Jacky. Drunk one too many pints, lost me sylph-like figure.”

“I meant,” Sam ground his teeth, “did you get a going over too?”

“No.” He took in a gusty breath and crossed his legs in front of him. One of his shoes had the beginnings of a hole in the leather sole. “Just a knock on the head. I’ve been awake for hours.”

“And the door won’t shift?”

“Be my guest – have a shot, big man.”

Casting an evil glance sideways, Sam shuffled on arse and heels over to the door. No handle. Rusty panelling. Ignoring all the protesting bruises and screeching muscles he leant back on his hands and kicked forward, hard.

“Jesus, fuck!”

“Yeah, we must be backed up against a wall.”

“Thanks for letting me know!”

“Yeah, well, thought you might like to try for yourself.”

With throbbing heels, and every joint and muscle in his body jangling, Sam eased himself up until he was sitting. “You’re a right bastard sometimes, Guv.”

“Ay, well, practice makes perfect.” He grinned suddenly, teeth white in the hazy twilight. “And you’re a lovely mover – grace, style? The way you fell over could give Jimmy Greaves a run for his money.”

“Thanks…” He sat up again, leaning back in miserable resignation. “So, we’ll have to rely on the squad to find us.”

“Or the Gladstones to come after their larder.”

“Oh, come on, they stashed us here to keep us out the way. Just like last time, and just like last time there’ll be no evidence of anything when we get out. Is this their M.O.? Back in ‘C’ division did you spend much time locked up while the villains blagged their way round –”

He broke off, choking as the DCI’s fist closed around his throat. The heavy face was close, so close he could - even in the half-light - see the open pores, and smell the acid taint of stale whisky. Dark eyes bored into his, vicious with intent. “You piss me off so much sometimes, you know that? Sometimes I could just…” Hunt shook his head, like a cat shifting water from its fur and whatever he’d been going to say was gone and the narrowed eyes were hard, smooth as glass. “Fuck you, Gladys. You think I had anything to do with this? You think I’d look the other way, let them play me? No way. We’re here for some shitty reason that I can’t work out. But I will. And you’ll help me, DI Tyler. Got it?”

Sam nodded, awkwardly. He tried to swallow, felt the thick fingers where they wrapped around his flesh and jerked as his cock suddenly thickened, fast and hot, until his hard-on was pressing against his flies. “All right.” He sounded half strangled. He _was_ half strangled, but his cock was eager, almost standing up and begging as Hunt growled in his face and the stink of piss and sweat drowned his senses. “I got it…”

“Good.” The hand relaxed, just a fraction as the DCI smiled, mouth twisting wide and feral. “Why, I do believe you might be more to Jack Gladstone’s taste than I thought. Like a bit of slap before the tickle, do you?”

“No!”

“Right. And I’m a monkey’s uncle.” And without another word he let go, leaning back, his face expressionless, cold as stone in winter.

For a long moment, Sam sat exactly where Hunt had left him, anger pushing blood through his veins, arousal catching his breath in his throat. He lifted a hand and rubbed where the fingers had gripped him. “You’re really something else, you know that?”

“That’s me; really something. And one day, if you’re lucky, I might just sort out that problem in your Farah’s.”

“It’s not…”

“What? Not a problem? If you say so, sunshine. Not that we’ve time to debate the issue – ‘cos it sounds as if the cavalry’s finally got its finger out its fanny.”

“What…?” and then he heard it too. The sound of voices. Chris shouting their names again and again. “Here! We’re here!” Sam was on his haunches, calling out, slamming his hands on metal walls as the skipper just sat there, staring stolidly into space.

:::

Cake

Jack Gladstone didn’t wear a size eleven after all – his feet were smaller but looked longer as he favoured ridiculously pointed shoes. They shouldn’t have hurt as much as boots, but maybe the tips were reinforced, because Sam knew for certain that at least one rib was cracked. He twisted as a toecap slammed right underneath his lowest rib and ground itself in.

“Bloody coppers.”

“Jack, yours still awake?”

“You’ve got to be careful – delicate, fragile things are coppers. They break if you treat ‘em too rough. Don’t tell me you’ve worn yours out already?”

Sam blinked sweat from his eyes and peered helplessly across the room. Hunt was out cold, his face bruised into meat, blood smearing the floor under his head. No enclosed space this time, just a simple beating. Barry Gladstone walked slowly across the threadbare carpet and stared down, grinning when Jack put his weight behind the shoe that was pinning Sam to the floor.

“Right, Tyler isn’t it?”

Was that a question? Vomit snagging acridly at the back of his throat, Sam blinked in confusion. A fist, laden with sovereign rings, clipped the side of his head. “Speak up, copper!”

Another slap, casual as a handshake, and Sam spat blood. “Why?”

“’cos we like conversation, why’d you think?”

Sam grunted as Jack’s boot tried a little rearrangement of his spleen. “Then we should be having tea and cakes.”

“Jack likes cakes.” Barry crouched down at Sam’s side and glanced up at his brother. “Battenberg, that’s your favourite, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but the marzipan’s just never thick enough.” They shared a look, grinning.

And in the instant before they turned back to him, Sam heaved at the foot pinning him down and lashed out with an elbow, knocking Barry Gladstone backwards. But he didn’t quite manage to unbalance Jack, and though Barry went sprawling, the other brother merely danced backwards for a couple of steps and then came back at him, pointed toe-cap swinging before Sam even managed to get to his feet.

Both brothers enjoyed their work. Smeared across the floor, Sam only barely stayed conscious. Afterwards, with much swearing at each other and mutterings about horses and stable doors, they slammed him face first into the carpet, wrenched his arms behind his back and wound copper wire tight around his wrists.

It was a while before Sam was aware of much apart from pain.

“Now, Tyler.” A hand slapped his face. Sam blinked through sweat and blood to look up. Jack held his chin, smiling down like a priest administering absolution. “Naughty, naughty, copper.” Not absolution then. Maybe the Last Rites. Groggily, Sam clocked the dilated eyes, the heightened breathing. “You need a lesson or two in how it’s going to be around here. This town’s ours and you are ours. You want money, girls, drugs? We’ve got ‘em. You want to have a nice, peaceful time? We can manage that too. Just keep in mind that we’re your bosses. We call the shots. All of them. It’s easy peasy if you just get it right. And the lessons don’t all have to be this hard, do they?”

“You think…” Sam broke off, amazed laughter somehow turning into a cough that twisted the torn muscles in his chest and left his ribs burning. “You… Was all this to get us on your side, ‘cos let me tell you, it’s not working!”

“God, but you’re dim. This, copper, is to teach you what it’s like for those who aren’t on our side. Got it?”

“Yeah – get lost.”

Jack pulled a face. “Oh my, he wants to be difficult.”

His brother crouched beside him. “He just doesn’t quite understand. See, whatever you want, we can get it. All you have to do is look away.”

“In your dreams, mate.” Sam inched onto his side, biting his lip as he shifted and the world greyed out around him. “I’m not bent.”

“But your boss is. And you’ll come around. One way or another, mate.”

“In your dreams.”

He heard them laugh at that. Then hands were pulling him upright and his ears were ringing as someone screamed.

“I thought you hadn’t hurt him too badly?”

“So did I. Does it matter?”

“No. Come on, let’s get ‘im sorted.”

Sam knew he was being dragged along, but he couldn’t fight it. Could hardly stay awake enough to know when fresh air hit his face.

Shuffling footsteps. “Hold him.”

Half falling as he was released by one set of hands, held up finally by others that brought that sound close to his throat. Fuck. The scream had been his own. Jesus…

And then he was falling, tumbling into somewhere small, stinking of petrol. A fist thumped his groin and he curled up, shuddering, while a hand stroked his face. A gentle pat and the touch was gone, and with metal thumping against metal he met darkness like a shroud.

It took a long time for him to be able to move, then, just as he tried, whatever cover was over him lifted. With slightly more perception this time, he knew he was in the boot of a car. A big one, for as he lay there a second body was stuffed in after him, and, as pain slipped into a higher gear, time stopped.

:::

Boot

He’d thrown up. Or someone had.

Moving his head, fighting the dagger-like pain behind his eyes, he knew it was himself when his mouth stuck to whatever was under it.

“Jesus…”

“I thought you were dead.”

“Aren’t I?” Even to himself he sounded awful. Distantly he could hear the sound of a heart-monitor. Kylie was singing. A sob slipped from his mouth.

“Stop that!”

“What? Wanting to be in a coma rather than shoved into a car boot with you?”

“Sammy, Jack Gladstone came close to putting you into that coma you fancy – and as for the boot, be thankful it’s a Jag. I’m not sure they’d’ve got us into a mini without chopping bits off first.”

He could feel Hunt’s breath on his face, feel various portions of Hunt’s anatomy interwoven with his own. Sweat was sticking them together, and the air was thick with fumes and fear.

“Where are we?”

“How should I bleeding know, Doris? We drove somewhere. So wherever that is, we’re there.”

“Thanks.”

Sam closed his eyes, felt himself start to drift. Even the pain felt less appalling.

“Hey! Talk to me!”

“What…”  
  


“Don’t nod off.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m lonely, why d’you think?”

“Oh.”

“Can you move your leg?” He seemed to think for a moment, muttering under his breath. “The left one. No, not up! Sam, down if you please.” Sam moved.

They were fitted together like a puzzle he’d had as a kid, a frame that held sliding squares that you had to shift around in order to make a picture. Slowly curling his leg back, somehow finding a space for it, he bit hard on his lip as the movement put more weight on his ribs.

“Sam?”

“Yeah…” Sweat burned into his closed eyes. Kylie wasn’t even bothering to sing words, just na-na-na, again and again. Despair, bleak as December rain blanketed out his thoughts. There was no real line anymore between what he knew was sane and what he feared was insanity. Hunt felt real, but he could easily be an illusion. The pain was real. The beating had been real, so was the wire binding his wrists. But were they all just weirdly shifted perceptions? Figments of a mind set into an altered state? Fucked up imaginings, drug or fever induced ravings?

“Sam, come back to me.”

Oh, he was back. At least, with certainty, he wasn’t _there_. “Gene?”

“Mm.”

“Where’s Hyde?”

“Where you came from. What’s this, university-bloody-challenge?”

“No…”

“You still on about that stuff Annie was worrying over?” He snorted a laugh. “The silly bint was talking about ringing the funny farm. I’d watch out if I were you, trick cyclists are nothing but trouble. And skirts aren’t much better.”

“What about the missus?”

A pause for thought. “My wife? What about her?”

“Is she just a ‘skirt’?”

“She’s Himmler in disguise. Not much of a disguise either. Used to have nice tits though.”

Sam’s mind was spinning away again. “Ray liked them.”

“Ray likes anything that wobbles.”

Ah, that brought a smile. “What about you?”

“Don’t ask, Sam.”

“Gene?”

“I, DI Tyler, would like to get out of here. Sorry, son.”

And he shifted, weight rolling against Sam as somehow Hunt curled up his sixteen stone and slammed a foot upwards, springing the boot-lid open.

Sam whimpered, air like a blessing, pain like a curse as the solid body pulled away from him and clambered awkwardly out to freedom.

A hand patted his face, stayed there a moment too long. “Hang on in there. I’ll see if I can get the cavalry out the boozer.” Then he was alone. Sam tried to sit up, but his ribs had other ideas, and instead he slipped back into darkness, strangely sure that Hunt would make it all better.

:::

Bedsit

The room was hardly a box. Bigger than the wardrobe and less pungent than the transit, it was still too small and way too redolent of fried meals and incalculable cigarettes to be anything but a hole. The wallpaper gave him nightmares. Or maybe the nightmares gave him the wallpaper.

Whichever, at three in the morning, his bed scattered over with paperwork regarding the Gladstone brothers, he was only drowsing in the kind of half-sleep that had taken the place of any real rest.

If he slept – properly slept – then would all this be a dream?

Was that what he wanted?

He shifted, the barely-there supports on the bed squeaking in counterpoint to the springs as he leant over, and popped a couple of aspirin into his mouth, swigging them back with Lucozade (a present from Chris), its cellophane rustling as he set it back on the floor. Wincing at the chorus of rusty metal, he lay back. Christ, the bed was a wreck. Did people really live like this? He (well, DI Tyler circa 1973) earned a reasonable wage, yet here he was, shacked up in a shit-heap that’d had some lunatic on crack as its interior designer. The carpet alone was enough to make a man colour-blind, and as for the curtains? Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen, eat your heart out, mate.

Shifting again, he plucked at the white cotton of his vest. He felt sticky in the heat. Lying on top of the greasy (despite, or possibly because of, multiple visits to the laundrette) covers, dressed in his underwear - for he couldn’t quite bear to strip off naked for bed like he had at home – he watched shadows from car headlights playing over the cracks in the ceiling. Not all the world was asleep. The good, maybe. The bad, almost certainly not. Was there more bad back here? Or was it all just more overt. Messier, less organised. Petty, dirty crimes, made by nasty, ugly criminals.

The Gladstones weren’t ugly, not on the outside, where they looked like Kilroy-Silk’s younger brothers. They disproved his theory though. There was nothing petty about them. Unless you counted their spite.

A week in hospital and he still wasn’t allowed back to work. On the bright side, at least his ribs were knitting nicely and all the bruises were finally past their worst. Apparently his blood was back up to volume too, though he still felt weak, leeched of energy. The girl from the Testcard tutted at him.

Sam looked at her, too half-asleep to be scared. “You again.”

The clown’s grin was a rictus; a death’s head in pastel shades. “You were the one who went away.” The girl sounded aggrieved. Sam wondered if that meant he blamed himself for getting beaten up.

“I was in hospital.”

“You are in hospital, don’t you mean?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Killing yourself won’t help.”

“No?”

“No.” She turned, started walking away then paused, frowning back at him over her shoulder. “There’s visitors.”

“Not at this time of night…”

And a fist hammered on the door.

She was gone, sitting back in the tiny square of TV screen, her face as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa’s, the clown’s simply viciously amused.

Clawing himself upright, Sam made it to the door - hopefully before everyone in the house was woken up. “Who is it?”

“Micky bloody Mouse – open up, Sam!”

Great. Though at least this time he had some clothes on – and there were no handcuffs attaching him to the bed. Sam unbolted the door. “It’s three in the morning!”

Gene Hunt filled the room even before he shut the door behind him with a slam. “Oh, and there I was thinking the sun shone out your arse.” He paused for a look at Sam. “Nice knickers.”

“Now I know what to get you for Christmas.” Sitting back on the bed, Sam pulled on his jeans. “I was asleep.”

“Really?”

“No.” He sighed, admitting the truth.

“You look like shit – not exactly rested.” A finger rummaged through the paperwork littering the bed and Hunt’s lip curled.

“Thanks. Gene, why’re you here? I mean, jokes aside, it is the middle of the night.”

“Past the middle, I’d say. The witching hour is gone and we’re free-wheeling towards morning.” He grinned in lopsided apology. “Too many shandies. You dressed yet?”

“Nearly.” Sam pushed his feet into a pair of casuals and stood up. “So, where we going?”

“Out.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. How’s the ribs?”

“Knitting.”

“Good, make sure I get a scarf for Christmas.” He grinned, all teeth and shark-like amusement. “So, you up to playing goat?”

“Who’s the tiger?”

“Bright boy! Gladstone’s the tiger. Jack’s in Macy’s Nightclub, pissed as a newt and randy as a bitch in heat. I’m going to dangle you in front of him and see what happens. I thought about trying with Chris, but he’s too drippy. And Jack’s already got the hots for you.”

“He never touched me!”

“Yes he did.” A hand slid against Sam’s rib cage, felt along one mending bone. “You think this wasn’t foreplay?”

Held by the touch, and by the look that pinned him into immobility, Sam licked his lips. “Fuck.”

“I suspect he would - at a moment’s notice.”

There was no answer to that. Sam grabbed his jacket and walked to the door. “You’re making it up, I don’t think he fancies me at all, but…”

As he got the door open an inch, a hand reached past him and slammed it closed. Hunt’s breath was warm on the back of Sam’s neck, Hunt’s body big, oppressive, as it leant into him. “You doubting me, Sammy?” The words were little more than a whisper.

Turning his face slightly, Sam swallowed. He didn’t even think of fight, let alone flight. “Just wondering how you know.”

“Oh, I know all sorts. For instance I know that you’re going to be a good little goat and catch me a bastard, and I’ll warn you now, it’ll be no holds barred, Sammy. I get what I want any way I can.”

Weight leant him a little further into the door and he pressed his forehead against chipped paintwork. Somehow he kept his voice level. “You telling me I might end up as Jack’s goat supper?”

“Never seen myself as waiter before, but I guess you’re on a platter, being served up rare.”

“Great…”

“And I’ll tell you something else - you need to worry about more than Jack Gladstone.” Lips touched against Sam’s ear and he shivered convulsively. “Understand?”

Yes. No. Maybe. Sam forced his head around so his cheek was pressed to the door and looked into Hunt’s face. “I’m not queer.”

“Didn’t say you were. Didn’t say I was neither. But I’ll still have you on your knees, Sam. You like that idea?” The voice was soft-pitched yet utterly intense. “You ever sucked cock? Ever wondered about it? And I’m no stoat, Sammy.” A cant of hip and Sam knew it as heat and hardness pressed into the small of his back. “Go and catch me a tiger, and I’ll make it worthwhile.”

“Am I meant to find that an irresistible offer?” Sam was proud of his own nonchalance. Less proud that when Hunt laughed, leant an inch closer and bit gently down on the lobe of his ear, his cock leapt, the flood of arousal making him lightheaded.

“Oh, yeah, I think so…” And Hunt left him, stepping away as Sam turned around. “Don’t you?”

Insanity. Maybe here he was a different person. Maybe here not only the social mores were skewed. Sam straightened his shoulders and met Hunt’s eye. “I think we set a trap. Then we’ll see about who gets on their knees.”

And Gene Hunt smiled his own tiger-smile. “Right then. What you wasting time for?”


	2. Unboxed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Down but certainly not out...

:::

Boxed part 2: Unboxed

White handbags and white shoes were fashion essentials for all the girls in Macy’s. They were all girls too, even the ones who would never admit to anything but twenty-nine ever again. Girls, and slappers one and all. Sam pushed his way through them where they stood four deep at the bar, all of them getting drinks for their men – all of whom were lounging around being manly in the banquettes. The air reeked of hormones, speed, smoke – and perfume so thickly layered that flies were dying as far away as Macclesfield.

“Hello, handsome…”

Blonde, bright blue eye-shadow, sequins glued to thick foundation coating what might be a pretty face. Sam smiled awkwardly and squeezed between her and her mate. A hand on his arm stopped him.

“You’re new.” She had to shout over the music, her mouth close to his ear, her breasts pressed tight to his arm. She was grinning. “You up for some fun and games, gorgeous?”

“Ah, thanks, but…” He backed away, false smile plastered on his face. “Another time, maybe?”

She pouted up at him, then winked at her friend. “Come on, two for the price of one!”

Sam extricated his arm. “You’d eat me alive!”

At that she relaxed her grip on his arm and laughed, easy come easy go. “Who you lookin’ for?”

“Jack Gladstone.”

Understanding spread like a wave over her face. She looked at her friend, and the two of them giggled. “Hey, you could’ve said you were like that.” She mimed a limp wrist, and the two of them laughed again. “Go on, ‘e’s out back. With his friends, ducky…”

They were still staring at him as he backed into the crowd of dancers and was swallowed by the crowd. Sweating, feeling peculiarly grubby, he started working his way around the dancefloor, past girls in tanktops and tiny flowered mini-skirts, others looking like refugees from Little House on the Prairie. There was a lot of suede too. Most of it with fringing. Maybe the Guv’s Wild West fantasies weren’t too far out after all. Though none of the men were wearing Stetsons – they’d have crushed the perms.

After almost having his foot crushed by a platform boot, Sam made it to safety. The door at the rear of the club was clearly labelled, Private. At least it didn’t say – Poofters This Way. Or Benders Only. Christ alone knew what the really lurid local slang was. Though Ray, inadvertently, had given him a few pointers over the weeks. Maybe Ray was prescient. Or maybe he was just a wanker who’d got lucky. Maybe. After all, what was Sam doing in Macy’s? Shaking his arse for a queer mobster, that was the sum of it. Which could lead to all sorts. Hopefully a nice full prison and less scum on the streets. Getting fucked wasn’t part of the deal. His brain strobed between images of himself lap-dancing for Gladstone and Hunt doing the same honours for him. Which at least made him laugh, so thank heaven for small mercies.

Before his brain had a chance to take the pictures beyond dancing, he knocked, knuckle rapping just under the sign. A bouncer (it had to be, slippery hair, massive muscles and a penguin suit shiny with use) cracked the door ajar.

“I’m looking for Jack Gladstone.”

“Name?”

“Sam Tyler. DI Sam Tyler.”

“Wait.”

Who could resist such a gracious command? Sam waited, one shoulder propping up the wall, one hand running up and down the side-seam of his jacket. After a minute the door opened wide and he stepped into a parlour smoky as Hell’s antechamber; with most of the smoke resin based. Trying not to breathe in too deeply, he looked across a room packed with men, all of them looking at him, and in their centre, the smiling figure of Jack Gladstone.

“’ello, copper.”

“Jack.”

“Thought all you good policemen were tucked up in bed by midnight?”

“You think we need our beauty sleep?”

“Your boss does.” Laughter shifted like a wave around them. “Ugly fucker like that must need hours and hours. Happy to say we’ve helped ‘im along from time to time.”

“What? With a blackjack?”

“Fist, boot, whatever’s handy. We’re good at improvisation.” Gladstone spoke the word in five clear syllables. “With everything.” He gave a sharp, savage grin. “How’s the ribs?”

“They gave me a week off work.” Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “You know, lots of sleeping in and late nights. Almost better than a win on the Pools.”

“Nice to hear you appreciate it.” A step and Gladstone was by Sam’s side, and he regretted instantly that his hands were in his pockets as a finger was held to his chest, just under his breastbone. “Which ones did I get, eh?” The finger shifted across his shirt, feeling for the tape that still held Sam together. “How many?”

“Three.”

“My lucky number. Lovely.” The word was a breath and Gladstone’s pale blue eyes were suddenly dilated to black as they narrowed. “So, you want some more? If it’s pain that gets you going I can deliver as much as you want. ”

“You think that’s -” Pushing the hand away, Sam laughed, aiming for derision and yet pretty certain he’d hit closer to terrified. “Think again, Jack, you’re wrong there.” He stepped back, but the bouncer was there, solid muscle like a wall behind him and fear spiked adrenalin into his bloodstream. “’scuse me, _mate_.” All that happened was that Gladstone came even closer, his hand reaching up, sliding around Sam’s ribs, his fingertips counting upwards, pressing on each bone as they went. Breath catching in his throat, Sam took hold of the wrist and dragged it back, the effort needed enough to surprise him. “Don’t.”

Gladstone resisted, then just gave in, so that Sam had to step forward, almost as if into an embrace. A whisper brushed his ear. “You don’t have to tell anyone else. If you want more, just say. It can be our secret…”

“No.” There, clear and defined. Sam, all raised hackles and affronted dignity, brushed himself down. “And tell your muscle here to back off.”

At a look, the bouncer shifted, two paces only, but enough. “Thank you. And it’s no secret, Jack. I’m not into pain.”

The pale eyes met his, held them with amusement and an arch knowing that made Sam itch to punch the bastard’s lights out. “Oh, but it can be such fun.”

“No, it can’t.” He made himself meet the challenge, square on, and only blinked when the thin lips twisted condescendingly.

“Then, Mr Policeman, tell me why you’re here?”

“So I can tell you to your face that I’m not for sale.”

“Right.” He nodded and a ripple of amusement went around the group who were all listening avidly to their conversation. “I’ll be certain to remember.” Gladstone stepped away, licking his fingers. Even though they’d touched nothing more intimate than a nylon shirt, the picture was utterly disconcerting. Sam knew he had to leave. With dignity – if he had any left at all. “Thanks for popping by.”

Dignity was a lost cause. Sam kept his head high and put a strut into his walk as he headed to the door. Yet it still felt as if he was running away.

:::

Cortina

He pushed out of the club’s door and made it ten paces down the pavement before headlights flashed him from an alleyway. Jogging towards the waiting car, Sam could have sighed in relief.

“Well?”

Sam climbed in and pulled the door shut. “Oh, I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

“Course you’re bloody fine, you’re walking! How did it go?”

Settling into the passenger seat, Sam leant back and wearily closed his eyes. “He’s a sick bastard.”

“Tell me something new. Come on, was ‘e interested?”

“Guv, if I was into getting the shit beaten out of me, I could go down The King’s Arms at closing time.” Wearily he opened his eyes and looked across at where Hunt sat, his eager face pasty in the streetlight. “I don’t actually need to cosy-up to psychopaths in really bad clubs.”

Hunt was grinning. “I take it he swallowed the bait?”

“Yeah. He wants to send me flowers.”

“For your grave after ‘e’s kicked the life out of you.”

“Thanks. That makes me feel so much better. You know, you’ve a genius for psychology, perhaps you should take it up as a career.”

“No thanks, I’m too busy shafting slags like that arse-bandit in there.” Hunt shifted, the Cortina’s plastic seat groaning as he moved. Both hands were resting on the steering wheel, the black leather of his driving-gloves shiny in the light spilling down from a streetlamp. He flexed them, curled them around the wheel’s rim and turned his face to stare levelly at Sam. “I want them, gutted and strung up so tight they won’t see the light of day for twenty years. No one messes with me – or with mine.”

Hunt was sweating, and anger tightened the skin around his eyes. There was one thing, even here and now when they should be driving away, that Sam had to ask. “They said that you’re bent.”

The hands gripped tight, then relaxed, sliding around the wheel to fall into his lap. “Okay then, cleverclogs, what d’you think?”

What did he think? Sam considered, everything he’d found out or seen or been told, what he’d learnt from every punch, every quip, every shared pint of bitter and every offered sip of malt. He took a deep breath. “I think that you take and that you manipulate. I think you like being a bastard, and that you see yourself in spurs and a cowboy hat; Sheriff Hunt patrolling Deadwood, recently relocated to Manchester. As for the hat? I really don’t know what colour it’d be. Not black, but not white either.” Sam shrugged, watching as Hunt turned to face him, jaw set and eyes expressionless. “Grey, maybe, or off-white, like it’s been dragged in the mud a bit. After all, you do things because you _think_ they’re right. Or because you think that somehow things’ll _get_ right if you give them a hard enough nudge, or tap. You police by the by-hook-or-by-crook method. It works too.”

“So, what’s the answer, Brain of Britain?”

“Oh, thought I said - no, I don’t think you’re bent.”

A smile lifted the pockmarks around Hunt’s mouth. “Knew you liked me.”

“Yeah, right.” Unwillingly, Sam smiled back.

“So, tell me, would you let him up your arse?”

“What? No!”

“Just so as I know your limits.”

“For what? How far I’ll go as the goat in this plan – Jesus, am I really calling it a plan? It’s more a disaster waiting to bloody well happen! Talking of which, why’re we still here, shouldn’t we be getting the hell out of Dodge?”

“I thought we were in Deadwood – and stop changing the subject. Tell me – what would you do to nab ‘im? Let ‘im beat the shit out of you?”

“He’s done that.”

“Not when he’s doing it for his jollies…”

“Great. Guv, you’ve a knack for putting an image into my head, you know that?”

“Mmm. Did ‘e ask if you enjoyed it?”

“What makes you think…”

A big hand slammed flat across Sam’s solar plexus. Gasping for air, jacknifed forward, he could only glare woundedly as the DCI leant over him, the car’s suspension rocking gently. A hand wound into his hair and suddenly he was staring into fever-bright eyes. “You don’t think. And you don’t know me, sonny. With your tricks and games, with your sneer, you don’t know enough to wash behind your fucking ears. Me? I know filth, and Gladstone’s just that. He thinks with his wallet and then his cock. He’s scum so foul I’d throw away my shoes if I trod in ‘im.”

“Let go…”

“No.”

“Fuck.” Sam tried to twist away but the fingers had a tight grip on his hair, the pain ricocheting down through his body straight to his groin. Oh, Jesus…

“See? I can press your buttons, Sammy. I could push now, this minute, and you’d be sucking my cock so deep in your throat your stomach’d be tryin’ to digest it. Now, tell me this, Mr Clean-and-Shiny, Mr Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt, would you do it because I wanted you to, or because that’s what you really, really want, eh?”

Through watering eyes, Sam met the hot, angry gaze in absolute confusion. “You’re insane!”

“Am I? Want me to prove it?” He nodded, once, as if to himself, then with one hand still tight in Sam’s hair, he pushed his coat open, exposing a wide expanse of cream shirt and the tented folds of his trousers. “My, my, I do seem to be ready for action – how about you?”

Christ but Hunt was fast. Sam choked on a groan as a big hand grabbed his groin and held it tight before giving it a shake. “Guv…”

“Not when I’ve your jewels in me grasp, Sammy!”

“Gene!”

“You called?”

“What you -”

“What indeed. Who let the Genie out the lamp – and where exactly should I rub? Here?” A squeeze and Sam’s hips lifted, blood pounding, arms floundering as he fought and lost the battle for his self-possession. “Yeah, that’s it…” Hunt was grinning, teeth white, eyes hot and hard as Sam gasped and sobbed and finally surrendered, coming painfully, awkwardly in the squeezing fist, and Hunt’s tight hold was still wringing him dry and beyond dry until he was almost sobbing. “There. Now…”

And nonchalant as a king, Hunt cranked his seat back, unzipped, and eased his own cock out his flies, its shaft curving up, thickly veined, uncut, red as a side of beef.

Panting, sweat coating his face, Sam shook his head. “I’ve not…”

“Live and learn.”

“But I -”

A hand cupped the back of his head and Sam shuddered when Hunt gently stroked a thumb over the skin just under his hairline. Back and forth until he forgot where they were and even who he was, and all he could see was the perfect understanding in Hunt’s eyes.

“Do it.”

And he did. Leaning over, the cold wetness inside his pants oozing as he twisted sideways. The steering wheel was in the way, but he shifted onto his knees, hesitated, though a push shoved his head in the right direction and suddenly his face was full of flesh, the slickly wet head rubbing against his cheek, his nostril full of the thick scent of male sweat, of musk. Arousal spiked again, and despite the voice in his head that was screaming at him, he moaned, and licked, moaning again when Hunt stroked his head and murmured encouragement. Fuck, he’d seen enough of this on videos. Mouth full of saliva, he opened wide. Tasted. Oh yes, salt and the sea and oysters and wine oaked and yeasty with age. A lick and the encouragement intensified. Pushed down he cranked his jaw open and shifted again; one hand on the back of Hunt’s seat, the other between the spread thighs, plastic slippery under his palm.

“Come on, Sammy, get it down…”

A hand was under him, groping beneath his shirt, stroking skin, finding a nipple and pinching it hard enough to make him gasp, the gasp in turn letting the cock slide another inch into his throat. _Debbie Does Dallas. Sam Does Salford. Sam Goes Down. Sam sucks…_

Though this wasn’t sucking, it was being fucked in the throat. And it was right, it felt good. It was what he wanted. If he despised himself already, then why not be anything Hunt wanted? As if to test himself he pushed down, hard, and was rewarded by a groan. Control the uncontrollable. Oh yes. Sam felt the thickness expand even more, felt his throat stretch and, suddenly intuitive, he changed the angle and let himself become just something that simply took cock and rode it. Face mashed in the soft rise of belly, zipper scraping against his cheek, the steering wheel catching his ear as he moved up and down, all of it blending until he was unaware of anything but his own heartbeat, Hunt’s laboured breathing and then finally, just the openness of his throat and the push and slide of flesh.

A shout jerked him back into reality as Hunt slammed a fist into the roof and his mouth filled and he really was choking until suddenly he was falling backwards, half tangled in his own legs as he was pushed away. Sprawling, the muscles in his thighs twitching, panting for air, swallowing again and again, he wiped a hand over his lips.

After a long moment, Hunt let out an unsteady breath. “Sam...”

Jesus. “Yeah?”

“What am I going to do with you?”

Hysteria wasn’t really on. But… “You seem to’ve found one use.”

“Yeah. Nice one too.”

“Nice!”

“Yeah.” And Hunt looked at him.

“Oh.”

The wide mouth twitched in an almost-smile, one that faded into harshness almost at once. Tucking himself away, Hunt set the seat back to upright and pulled his coat back into place, all the while frowning at the road. When he turned the key, the engine started first time. “Now, I’ve got to see a man about a dog the other side of town – you can tell me what Jackie said later.”

“What, just _get out_?”

“You can’t come with me, you stink like a tart after a Friday night.”

“You bastard.” Teeth grinding, Sam wondered if he was actually blushing.

“Don’t mention it. Go on then, bugger off. There’s a nice caff round the corner does the best fried slice in town – they open in ten minutes.”

Sam glared, but at the same time he was pushing the door open and climbing out. By the time he’d slammed it shut the Cortina was leaving rubber on tarmac as it roared away.

“Fuck.”

Sam kicked at the curb and shoved his hands in his pockets. Suspicion pricked at his thoughts. Exactly why had all that just happened? Hunt was so bloody devious, he had to be planning something. But the thought went no further, for something hit his head, hard, and the early morning reverted to a starry night, one that twisted and turned into darkness.

:::

Playground

He didn’t lose all awareness. Blind, he still knew when a hand patted his face, and knew too when a boot slammed into his side, hard enough to make pain rise like well water in a flood. Lifted from the ground, he knew enough. Knew he was taken inside and that stairs hurt when you fall down them. Are thrown down them.

After that, awareness became insubstantial, reality a strange creature split between the dankness of a cellar and the soft, muted caring of intensive care. There was a doctor, saying something, but even that wasn’t enough to bring him wholly from here to there. The past was too strong. Too alive. Something that was a disputable fact in regard to himself.

And he’d sucked his boss’s cock, pretty much in public.

And he’d enjoyed it. Wanted it.

Oh, yes - thank you, God. Fucked, that’s what he was. Possibly quite literally if he continued to wait for Gladstone to come back. Sam cracked his eyes open. A shaft of light speared down from a small, high window. So, it was a cellar. Or a basement. Probably under Macy’s from the crates of bottles that leant against two of the walls.

Pushing himself up, back leaning against a pile of crates, he winced, pausing for breath. Another burst of energy got him to his feet, one hand clutching his head, the other the wall. When he was certain he wasn’t actually going to throw up, he walked slowly to the door and – just for form’s sake – rattled its handle. Locked. What a surprise. Without much hope he pressed his ear to the wood and listened. Distant voices, the sound of a radio. Guards, maybe. Certainly not a way out. He turned slowly and looked around, seeing a room, four-square, damp, pretty much windowless, stinking of stale booze and rat piss. Apart from the crates there was nothing else. Just a room. And him.

Along with the anticipation of whatever misery Jack Gladstone was brewing for him. For it didn’t seem likely that tea and cakes were on the agenda. Not even Battenberg.

He chose the wall opposite the door and, sliding his back down the chipped and scraped plaster, sat himself on the floor. It was cold. Curling his arms around his drawn up knees, he rested his head back, wincing as the large bump on it made contact with the wall. In a while it’d probably be the least of his worries. Eyes closed, he pushed the thought away. He needed positivity. Oh, yeah, and that’d work so well in the face of being ass-fucked by a sadist.

Which at least made him laugh. Though the sound was weary, strange. Just like the situation. Fuck, whatever was going on, wherever he was and whoever he was, life was not exactly usual. Like having Hunt’s cock in his mouth. Which actually came under the heading of strange but hot. Which was pretty much a revelation in itself. So he was queer and submissive. Nice. At least he hadn’t suddenly developed a thing for farm animals – even if Hunt was similar to a few he could think of. Queer wasn’t so bad. And he wasn’t, not really. He was just putty in Hunt’s great big hands. Which was something he should have found pathetic, but instead he merely found curious.

Gladstone didn’t turn him on. Pain was still a no-no. So maybe he wasn’t that different. Maybe Hunt really was a genie, and he was under a spell.

Yeah, right – hocus pocus, suck my cockus.

Ridiculously, he was still smiling when he drifted into a half sleep. One he roused from as soon as the key turned in the lock. Staying put, he just grinned up viciously when Jack Gladstone sauntered into the room, leaving the door open behind him.

“Hi, Jack!” He paused as if in thought. “Hey, don’t you get bored with that? You know, hijack, hi, jack… no?”

“You’re one noisy bastard, copper.”

“I’m taciturn, me.” And now he was channelling Hunt. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. “Renowned for it.”

“I can find ways to shut you up.”

“You have shut me up already, you locked me in here, didn’t you? That’s shut up, as in enclosed.”

“Noisy _and_ a comedian.”

“Oh, sure, I’ve been taking lessons from Eric and Ernie.” Sam looked up, sneering. “Though I guess Larry Grayson’s more your style.” The kick caught him on the upper thigh and he grunted. “Not Larry?” The second kick was hard enough to slam him into a sprawl. Scrambling away, he got his feet under him and stood, edging closer to the door. “Guess not.”

“Tosser.”

“Oooh, playground insults!” Grinning, Sam turned, took one step towards the door and stopped suddenly, all thought of escape torn to shreds as two bruisers came to join the party. Suddenly the basement was a lot smaller than he’d first thought.

Cold sweat prickling between his shoulder-blades, Sam backed away from the door. But Gladstone was there, and he was brought up short, a hand on his shoulder enough to make him flinch before he shrugged it away. It was back immediately, gripping tight. “Sam, you know, I liked being a kid. What about you?”

Still staring at the two men who were flanking the now closed door, Sam shook his head. “Not much.”

“Skinny, were you? Yeah. Bet you were the runt everyone else laid into. Poor little DI, were you bullied?” Jack Gladstone laughed softly, his breath sour as Sam tried to pull away. “Guess some things never change – bullied by Hunt and now bullied by me. Oh, and by the way, was that blow-job voluntary?”

Turning slowly, Sam stared into Gladstone’s amused eyes. “What?”

“Oh, we were watching. Not close up, mind. We couldn’t see the finer details, which was a real shame. We felt quite left out. So, I thought you could give us a re-enactment, show off your skills like, and we could give you marks out of ten, just like in Eurovision.”

Biting his lip, Sam shook his head, the world around him even more unreal than usual. “Nil points from the French judges.”

“Ah, you do French too? My day’s just getting better and better, and I haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

“Fuck off, Jack, I’m not playing.”

“Oh, I think you will.” Supremely confident, Gladstone took two paces back and nodded to his goons. “My associates here will help you. “

“Yeah, right.”

He got an elbow in the first one’s gut and slammed the heel of his hand, hard, into the other one’s throat. Pivoting fast, he followed the elbow with a punch, exhilaration like a drug as the muscle went down with a crash, falling into a pile of crates and knocking it sideways. A hairsbreadth out of luck, Sam sprinted for the door and freedom but instead tangled with an outspread leg and fell, slamming hard into the floor, was slammed harder as a heavy body landed on him and a kidney-punch whited out his sight.

“Get ‘im up!”

Up apparently meant onto his knees. Dragged across the floor he was thumped down, arms twisted behind him. Breathe. He could do it. Sam licked his lips and managed to twist them scornfully. Though a slap wiped his face clean. There was blood in his mouth, either a cheek torn on a tooth or his lip was split. Just to be irritating he grinned. And got the matching set from a backhander. He spat onto the floor, just missing Gladstone’s loafer, and silently cursed his aim. Something there to work on, for next time. Which really did make him grin. “Jack, you ever thought of saying please?”

“What, as in - please mister copper, give us a blow-job, just like the one you gave your boss?”

“Yeah.”

“Fucking comedian. Bert, give ‘im a hint.”

Unsubtle leverage attempted to pull his arm loose from its socket. He didn’t scream. Not quite.

“Lovely.”

His sight was blurry when he looked up at Jack Gladstone, who was towering over him, cock in fist, tongue licking back and forth over his lower lip. “Pervert…”

“Too right. Bert, once more for luck -”

And this time he did cry out, Gladstone’s words lost in the rip of ligament and muscle. Sweat dripped down his face and he was panting for breath when they pulled him upright. A fist grabbed his face.

“Now, open wide. No biting, got it?”

“Fuck. Off.”

“You’re very dumb, copper. Open wide and I won’t hurt you too much.”

“Really? What if I bite it off?”  
  


“Then I’ll flay you. I’ve always wanted to skin someone.” He stroked Sam’s face, one nail scraping over the cheekbone as if testing the thickness of skin. “I’d start here, work my way down. Skin your cock last. Save it as a treat.”

The threat was something out of Hammer Horror, or Japanese porn, but Sam could see it – see himself, laid open, peeled down to an anatomical illustration, all veins and muscles and –. He stopped the thought sharply, bile like acid in his throat. He wanted to say, you wouldn’t. Or, just try it. But fear was alive and he knew he was shaking. Besides, he’d sucked one cock tonight, so what difference would another make?

And the penny dropped.

Jesus, who’d’ve thought…

He blinked back to reality when his head was given a shake. “Ah, he understands.” Sam wondered what Gladstone had seen in his face. But fear existed and he couldn’t change that. And it was still only oral sex. Still just what he’d already done and got off on. He grinned, and wondered how far away the cavalry were.

“Charlie, hurt ‘im.”

Sticks and stones. Jesus, screaming hurt the throat. After a long moment, he choked out, “Bastard.”

But the word was without venom. Clawless. And Gladstone knew it. Triumphed in it as he stepped close, pressing his cock to Sam’s face, wiping it across stubble, tapping the meaty head playfully on each cheek, smearing a trail that prickled as it dried on his skin. “Good boy. Open for daddy…” A hand ripped into his hair. Sam gasped and suddenly he was doing it. Not sucking, or participating, but simply being mouth fucked. And then throat fucked. A shift of muscle and one of the bruisers levered on his arm, and this time the scream was well and truly stoppered, dammed back by thick flesh that wasn’t as solid as Hunt’s but was still solid enough, still hard and vicious enough. Too much. Choked, living for the small gasps of air that made their way into his throat, Sam found thought enough to wonder if this was it. If this was how he was going to die. And the thought alone was enough. For, insane or not, it wasn’t going to end like this. Not like this… and as Gladstone threatened to smother him, and as he knew for certain that his arm was no longer socketed firmly into his shoulder, he tasted the sourness of spunk flooding into his mouth and the world faded to black.

:::

Safe

Awareness was transitory. Flash of light, pain. Voices, Chris swearing, which didn’t seem likely. Hunt shouting. Likely, true, but so loud it hurt, and Sam hated it but knew he was whimpering as he was moved. From a metal box. One he’d been folded into like a jack-in-the-box. Curled up, stuffed in, battened down. Battered down. Jack (Gladstone Jack not the box Jack) grinning, patting his face as they fitted him into the space. Cold space. Sam smiled, his lips cracking blood.

They levered him out, pain bouncing like a pinball out to score maximum. There was a place of darkness for a while. Then he was on his back, shivering. Cold.

“Sam, come on, son!”

The guv. Nice. They’d found him. “C…cold…”

Which wasn’t exactly _thank you_ , or _at last, you bastard_ , but was at least something.

“Yeah, we know.” Something was draped over him. Warm wool, smelling of that aftershave. Big hands tucked it around him, their touch ridiculously gentle, though he still couldn’t help the pain that left him gasping.

“Where’s the ruddy doctor!” Ah, that shout again. “Tell ‘im to get up here pronto, or I’ll have ‘is balls for breakfast!” Good old, guv. Sam breathed in his scent, the aftershave, the fags and whisky smokiness. “Sam, stay with me, son.”

“Sure…”

“Good.”

Though there was another of those strange shifts from grey to black.

When he surfaced again, it was with a buffer between him and the world. Morphine; pleasure at the tip of a needle. Thank you, God.

“He’s coming round.”

Was he? Yes, he supposed so.

“Don’t ask him too much and don’t stay too long.”

“Yes, matron.” A pause. “Bloody Gestapo.” Sam cracked open an eye. Hunt was leaning over him.

“Hi.” At least, that’s what it would be if Hunt could interpret the croak.

“Some goat. You weren’t meant to get eaten!”

Really? Christ, Hunt may as well have tucked parsley behind his ears. That made him smile, though his face seemed to crack with the movement. “How…?”

And Hunt understood, and nodded. “We got both of ‘em. Barry took advantage of his brother being occupied and tried a little freelancing, so he’s looking at ten to fifteen for armed robbery and Jack? Well, let’s just say that the judge won’t take kindly to what he did to you – even leaving out the sexual assault, which we most certainly are, shutting you in a meat-safe counts as attempted murder.”

“Great.”

“Not bad. You look bloody awful.”

“Thanks… Glad it worked…”

“Jesus, Sam…” Hunt’s face was suddenly very close, absolutely intense in a way Sam had never seen before. Heat flowed through him and took away the last lingering hard edges of cold. “Yeah, I know, I’m a total bastard.” And the look flinched slightly, but didn’t disappear. Not even when Hunt smiled. “Just so you know? He won’t be using his dick for a while. It made me feel better anyway.”

“Thanks…”

“Yeah, right. And the camp commandant, sorry, Staff Nurse Sally out there, seems to think you’re too delicate for visitors, so I’m going now. Besides I’m dry as a gravel patch and Winston owes me a pint or three. I’ll be back, soon. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m not ‘ere to keep an eye on you, right?”

What, like die? Sam wanted to ask, but he was too lost, too busy trying to interpret through the haze of drugs what Hunt was really saying, what that look really meant. But he was pretty certain, and he wished he was well enough to talk in sentences rather than just words. But then words weren’t always what they were cracked up to be, and sometimes simple was best. Easing his head on the pillow, he nodded. “Okay.”

There, he managed that. Meant it too. Though he almost wept, just from weakness, when Hunt planted a kiss on his lips. One kiss in, and of, a world of confusion. But a world that still, for all its ridiculousness, suddenly felt real. He opened to it, shivered when it deepened then just as suddenly was gone.

“You’re on a promise, Sam.” Hunt stood up as the door opened. “All right, all right, I’m going!”

He lay still, listening as Hunt was chivvied away. Eyes closing, he drifted away, and for the first time in this life looked forward to tomorrow.

End


End file.
